Time Travel and The Commodity of Zippers
by Nakimochiku
Summary: Some 200 years in the future,they'll write about you as the man who single-handedly saved France from destruction. You can't die until then. France x England oneshot, enjoy.


Time Travel, and The Commodity of Zippers

**Paris, 1792**

It wasn't yet dawn, but Francis was already awake, staring out at his manicured garden, to the mishmash of elegant and functional buildings that made up Paris. Paris itself was in crumbles that couldn't been seen or felt, only heard in the angry voices of the so called republicans, screaming for freedom, justice, or death.

Not their deaths, though. Instead, the deaths of all who opposed them, a country run on blood and fear and desires and greed. Francis smirked wryly to himself, taking a sip from his coffee, brushing a stray hair from his face. Like this though, with the sun making it's steady yawning crawl over the horizon, staining the sky first dark, then purple, then orange, Paris was still beautiful.

Like this, Paris was still the Paris he remembered.

"Bloody hell! Always a broom closet!" The crash at the end of the hall made Francis whirl around, on edge. Too many times had the raiding of nobles' homes begun with a crash and a yell. Granted, this was probably the first time the yell had been so distinctly English. He watched the door, but all that came through the gilded portal was a head of shaggy blonde hair. "You're here." the stranger seemed to mumble more to himself than Francis, walking all the way into the room. "He said you would be, but I didn't expect it."

Francis held his breath when the Englishman approached, taking in his slim pale blue pants, and loose shirt, finding himself befuddled at the completely odd clothes. He didn't have a scrap of lace on him, never mind the odd metallic thing keeping his pants held together. "Who -?"

His question was cut off when slim fingers wrapped around his wrist, pulling him to the door. "No time for any of that now, poppet, you need to come with me." He tugged again, and the befuddlement washed away in favour of sharp irritation.

"First of all, why should there be no time for you to answer a question in my own house?" he grabbed his hand away, unamused as the Englishman muttered something along the lines of "stubborn back then, too." Both were surprised when, near the front of the house, at the door, there was a crash, and a yell, and the splintering sound of yielding wood. The stranger cursed. Francis raced to the window, unsurprised to see Parisians gathered around it with the usual pitch forks and torches.

"Enemy of the republic!" The mob outside screeched, and Francis felt fear shoot down his spine, his face going pale. The hand of the other was back around his wrist, pulling him towards the door of his study as the voices got louder, closer. They had broken down the door, cheering, yelling, demanding his blood. "Enemy of the republic!"

"This is why we don't have time. Hi, Francis Bonnefoy, I'm Arthur Kirkland, and I'm going to save your sorry French ass, now shut up and do as I say!" he tugged on him sharply, his glare leaving no room for argument, pulling him down the hall. Francis realized in horror that he was still in his house robe and slippers. The humility.

"What are you doing?" Francis hissed when Arthur shoved him into the closet and closed the door behind them, leaving them in utter darkness. Arthur shushed him with a glare that Francis could feel more than see, fiddling with something and cursing obscenely. Below them, the mob stormed his household, yelling, thrashing, coming ever closer. Suddenly, Arthur wrapped his arms around his waist, a good head shorter than him, green eyes glinting now that Francis's eyes had adjusted to the lighting. "I could make an obscene comment -!" he started, a smile tugging his mouth while Arthur growled.

"Don't." he said, muttering to himself something along the lines of "has always been a pervert too."

Francis would have added something more, but a sickening lurch hooked itself inside his stomach and dragged downwards. He felt like his insides were being scooped out with a rusty spoon, and grit his teeth to bear it before suddenly, it was over. Arthur kept his arms wrapped around him, and it took Francis a minute to notice that he felt a draft ruffling the hem of his house coat. Francis pried open his eyes, ignoring the wave of nausea to look around. It was Paris from the opposite side of the Seine. He knew it somewhere in his heart, even though the sky line was dominate by buildings taller than Francis could fathom, the sun glittering of glass that scrapped against the sky.

"Francis Bonnefoy, meet Paris of the year 2010." Arthur grinned at him, for a moment his stern face was lit up, and Francis found him a little more likeable. The smile dimmed, tanned cheeks flushing when he caught Francis staring, and Francis found that he liked that expression even more. Arthur muttered to himself again, wrapping his fingers around his wrist and leading him into the city that looked so different, but remained unchanged.

"I don't understand." Francis said, taking in the people, their shoes, their hair, their metallic things that made him endlessly curious, for no one seemed to use buttons. They all dressed like Arthur, and Francis found it odd to see women without corsets, or in tight clothes that barely fell past their thighs. Odder to see that men didn't wear their hair long and powdered. "Everything is made of glass, the roads are all made of stone, there are carriages with invisible horses." he was at a loss.

"Those are called automobiles." Arthur told him dully, a half smirk tugging his mouth.

"Everyone has metal things on their coats instead of buttons."

"Zippers." Arthur supplied, leading him through winding Parisian streets that he felt he should recognize, still cobble stone in some places. The old gargoyles still scowled down at him on the same street corners, worn and weathered from one rain too many.

He followed the English man blindly, house slippers flip-flopping and eyes widened in curiosity. The year 2010, Arthur had said. So far away from his year. So far out of his life time. Arthur led him up the steps of a museum. "dedicated to the study of past events." They went from ancient times in Greece or Rome displayed as little more than clay pots and knives, to the age of chivalry, suits of armour lined up and polished, further still to snatches of history that he recognized, uniforms worn by unmoving bodies, further into the future, when Arthur defined an age called the great war. Pictures of battlefields were tacked to the wall, and Francis shut up eyes.

"I don't want to learn about that." Francis said resolutely, skipping ahead and ignoring the gruesome art on display to push open a glass door labelled "gifts". Arthur gave him a long suffering sigh, following behind him. Inside, it smelled of perfumes and herbs, little trinkets and books lining the shelves. Francis amused himself with the plastic masquerade masks, grinning at Arthur from behind them. "I have one at home," he said excitedly, hardly noticing the odd looks the other patrons were giving him, or that his house robe was coming undone, or that his slippers were damaged irreparably. He was having too much fun, and it was a strange and exciting concept, nearly as novel as traveling into the future with an adorably grumpy Englishman.

That's when the hats caught his eye. He placed the mask among its fellows, picking up the bicorn hat and rubbing the cheap fabric between his fingers. Arthur wandered over, quietly amused as Francis stuck the hat on his head and adjusted it. "Look!" The Englishman raised one thick eyebrow at him. "I have one just like it at home. Only it didn't cost…" he flipped the hat over to look at the tag, studying it for a minute. "What's a euro?"

Arthur showed him everything, reacquainting him with Paris, despite living there all his life. Cotton candy, pink and fluffy and melting in his mouth. Soda that bubbled and fizzed and tickled his nose, boxes with moving pictures inside, all of it was new and fascinating, that he felt like a child let loose on society.

What seemed like hours later they sat on a grassy field in the city, children playing before them on a colourful playground. For a long time, they sat in comfortable silence, watching the clouds. The breeze brushed over them, and Francis watched it tousle Arthur's hair, the high risers a perfect back drop for his delicate features. Green eyes flicked over to him, cheeks dusting red. "Stop looking at me like that." Arthur whispered, knocking his leg against Francis's. They lapsed back into silence once more, before Francis frowned.

"Why are you showing me all this?" he asked Arthur softly, finding the Englishman's face morphed back into an unpleasant expression. "This is wonderful, thank you, and you saved me as well. But why here? Why 2010?"

Arthur heaved a sigh, green eyes turning to him, an earnest desperation glowing about him. "Listen to me, Francis. Without you, France is going to sink into a bottomless pit, and tear itself apart." the same slim fingers slipped into his hands, those enchanting eyes boring into him. "In some 200 years, you'll be written about in history text books as the man who single-handedly saved France from the brink of destruction." He looked away, almost ashamed. "If I hadn't saved you then, Paris would be in ruins. I needed you to live."

Francis looked away too, away from the hand holding his, away from the green eyes that glittered, away from Paris of 2010, looking instead toward the sky, a sky that hadn't changed.

"And also…" Arthur whispered, voice small and unsure. They gazed at each other, the blushing expression that Francis had come to love plastered over Arthur's face. "Also, you're the asshole I fall in love with, so you can't go off and die on me." he turned away, completely mortified with himself. Francis felt happiness well in his stomach, a warm, gentle feeling.

It wasn't until the sun was nearly setting that Arthur decided it was time to go home. "You'll be fine." he promised dryly, wrapping his arms around him once more. Francis prepared himself for the jerk and pull, eyes clenched tightly shut, but nothing came. When he opened his eyes, Arthur was gone, and he was back in his study.

Francis heaved a sigh. "You didn't even tell me when to expect you again."

**London, 1802**

Francis tipped his hat politely to the lady that curtsied at him, offering her a charming smile. At least in London, there was no press of adoring public, both peasant and noble, for saving the country, he found that he had become quite fond of the common Englishman.

Thick fog rolled off the Thames, swirling around him and making everything uncomfortably damp, obscuring the vision. For a moment, lost in the mists and the passing of other people, Francis thought he saw the head of shaggy hair he'd been searching for relentlessly for the past ten years, checking the Englishmen he met against a check list of the things he remembered of Arthur.

This time, it had to be him.

"Arthur!"

He ran forward, barely pausing to mumble excuses into anyone he ran into, trying to catch the swish of a black coat, the bob of an elegant top hat. "Arthur!" he called again, feeling his heart race in his mouth when his quarry stopped to turn, brilliant green eyes. "It's you." He gave the other a breathless smile. "I still remember your confession from ten years ago!"

Arthur's formidable brow bent into a frown. "I think you have the wrong person." he attempted to turn away, but Francis grabbed him arm.

"No, it's you. Don't you remember? 2010? Saving me? The zippers?"

Far above on a shingled roof, leaning against soot blackened chimneys, Francis watched himself of the past try desperately to explain the function of zippers to the Englishman as he got increasingly irritated, which only convinced him of his identity all the more.

"I was sort of cute back then, wasn't I, Petit Lapin?" Francis asked his lover sweetly, pressing a kiss to Arthur's temple, pulling him in close to his side. Arthur growled low in his throat, watching his former self yell at Francis, attracting the attention of everyone on the street.

"You're a frog."

"Then, now, and forever." Francis agreed. "now come, petit lapin, you promised to show me the discovery of Jamaica." in a flash, the roof was empty, leaving two raised voices to argue out their differences, and somewhere over the course of a thousand years, fall in love.

**Owari**


End file.
